


The Wire

by Anonymous



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Natasha Romanov Lives, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), SHIELD, Soul Bond, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28965681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Clint Barton was sent to kill his soulmate. He made a different call. Nearly twenty years later, Natasha Romanov comes back from the dead.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Kudos: 6
Collections: Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020





	1. 2008

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dressedupasmyself](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dressedupasmyself/gifts).



"Jesus Christ," Clint said, dragging his fingers across the screen of the tablet Fury had handed him, and peering at the mission details. He scrolled back up, verifying the flag at the top of the file. Status: black. "She's young."

Fury stared at him from the other side of his carefully ordered desk. "She's been on this earth long enough to cause a lot of damage. Dublin, Miami, Johannesburg."

"That was her?" Clint studied the photo of the unsmiling, green-eyed woman. The estimated age listed was twenty-three, a few years older than Clint had assumed at first glance.

"That was her," Fury agreed. "Don't let that pretty face distract you, Clint."

Clint's gaze flickered sharply upwards, away from the screen. "That one of her moves?" he asked, and Fury shrugged.

"Wouldn't it be one of yours, if you looked like that?"

"Sure thing. I'd never have to fire an arrow." He paused, frowning at Fury. "You're running lead?"

"Not exactly. You'll stay connected to Central. I'll have someone standing by." Fury narrowed his good eye at Clint's hesitation. "You don't need someone to hold your hand on this one, do you, Barton?"

"No, sir."

*

Coulson was waiting outside Fury's office, scratching at the newspaper crossword in his hand with a ballpoint pen. He eased away from the wall as Clint came through the door, and straightened his suit jacket. "I hear you're off," he said, falling into step beside Clint.

"Yeah. Fury filled you in?" Clint asked.

"I'm your backup. If you miss a check-in by an unacceptable number of hours, Fury sends me to ride to your rescue."

"Just like in that comic book you like," Clint said, and Coulson rolled his eyes in reply. "Let's be real, Coulson. I just scrolled through a list of this target's greatest hits, and if I'm late for a check-in? It's probably because I'm dead."

"I'll come check on you anyway," Coulson said, in the placid tone he had where Clint couldn't really tell if he was kidding. The crease of his eyes seemed to mark worry. Clint flashed him a smile, teeth showing in a confident grin.

Coulson's expression remained staid, telling Clint that he wasn't falling for it. "Try not to do anything I wouldn't let you do," Coulson added, breaking off in the direction of the commissary with a wave.

"By the book," Clint assured him, with a cocky salute. "They'll name a training seminar after me."

*

The Quinjet took off from New York in a windstorm. The agent piloting it was young and energetic, and she kept up a steady stream of small talk until somewhere over the mid-Atlantic, where Clint's lack of response finally discouraged her into silence.

Clint scanned his mission specs one more time, then he closed his eyes and fell asleep. He woke up with a start to the blur of city lights in the falling dark.

"Sir?" the pilot said. It was her voice that had jolted him awake. "We're here."

Clint nodded, grabbing his case from under his seat. A change of clothes, a rifle, and his bow, lovingly packed. "Thanks," he said, and the agent brightened.

"Good luck, Agent Barton. Not that you need it, I guess."

Clint grinned. "I never turn down luck."

The jet hovered in the dark, outside the city limits, and Clint tumbled from the hatch into the dark.

*

He checked into a small hotel on the outskirts of Berlin, run by a husband and wife who finished each other's sentences with an ease that marked them as soulmates. They'd probably been bonded for years, Clint thought as he watched them. 

"Welcome to Berlin," the wife said, handing him a room key, as the husband nodded cheerfully at him. 

"A long flight, I expect. You'll be getting to bed early?"

"Nah." Clint flashed a bright, charming smile at her. "I'm going to see what the city has to offer."

*

Black Widow. The codename did what it was meant to, evoked images of an operative with a lethal sting. SHIELD Intelligence didn't know her real name, or where she was from. The best guess they had was that she'd come out of one of the Russian or Eastern European programs that operated far off the books, long after the fall of the USSR.

Intel had picked up her trail two days ago. They didn't know what she was doing in Germany, but chances were that it was lethal, and that she'd vanish once it was done. Right now, the biggest advantage Clint had was that she wasn't looking out for him. Working by himself and at a distance, he planned to keep it that way. 

Plans, as Clint frequently told Coulson, never held together for very long.

*

Brian Northwood sold weapons, to just about anyone. Coulson had once referred to him as a taller, even more unscrupulous version of Tony Stark. Clint supposed it fit, though it was maybe a little unfair to Stark. Clint had been up close to Stark once, through his scope, watching arms buyers on a yacht off the California coast. He at least seemed like he'd be fun to kick back with, which couldn't be said about Northwood. 

Germany was just one of Northwood's listed residences, a mansion surrounded by a tall, iron wrought fence. Clint had expected it to be guarded, but he hadn't expected Northwood to be hosting a party. The gates were wide open, as long black cars inched up the drive, drivers briefly lowering dark windows to flash gilt invitations at the guard.

*

Clint tucked his night vision binoculars back into his black ops gear with a half-swallowed sigh. A small bird landed on top of the tree he'd scaled, then peeped in surprise at Clint's presence and took off again. Dusk was falling. Clint dropped down from his perch in an easy bound, and sprinted back towards the road, where he'd left his rented car.

*

Central put him through to Coulson in an instant.

"What do you mean, party?" Coulson asked, after Clint spoke.

"Fancy dress, canapés. A guest list. Friends of Northwood?"

"Northwood doesn't have any friends," Coulson answered curtly. The connection crackled with static.

"If they're not friends, then they're coworkers." Clint paused, thinking. "Northwood hires Black Widow, who, going by her sheet of suspected kills, has got to be expensive. He throws a party. Has Northwood ever thrown a party before?"

"I'll run it by Intelligence, but not to my recollection," Coulson said. "What don't you like?"

"Too many eyes," Clint answered immediately.

"You can handle that," Coulson pointed out.

"Too many unknowns. If Northwood doesn't have any friends, then they're here because he has something they want."

"Maybe. But Fury was clear. The Black Widow is a priority. She's the main priority."

Clint thought back to the image in the Black Widow's file. Something was still bothering him, but he couldn't identify it or put it into words for Coulson, who was listening on the other end.

"Don't get distracted," Coulson warned him quietly.

"No," Clint agreed. He shook his head, as if to clear the fuzz, and looked into the distance, back in the direction he'd just come from. "I guess I'm going to a party."

"Eat a canapé for me," Coulson said.

*

A perfectly shot arrow deadened the sensors in a section of Northwood's fence, enough for Clint to climb over it and scurry across the darkened lawn. He clambered up the trellis, falling through a second-story window and coming up with his bow drawn, the movement stuttering slightly on the end as Clint recognised the arrow's target.

Justin Hammer raised both his hands in the air, pointing with one to the phone he was holding in the other. "I was just trying to make a phone call," he said, shaking the cell in his hand. "Can't, anyway. N-dubs must have jammers on. Look, I was just here to window shop, you know? Wasn't going to buy anything." When Clint didn't reply, Hammer asked, "CIA? MI:5? God, you're not here for me, are you?" His voice took on a wheedling tone as he eyed Clint's weapon. "You wouldn't kill a man who hasn't met his soulmate yet, would you? Especially not with that thing." He eyed Clint's bow with distaste.

Clint scowled at Hammer from behind the sights of his bow. "I'm not here for you. But I am going to need your suit."

Hammer's breath of relief turned to a frown. "It's custom. It won't fit you."

"Yeah? Well, I'm just going to have to make it work, I guess."

Hammer's mouth pulled into a sour line, but he complied, pulling off trousers and a jacket marked by a gaudy pocket square. He tugged gently at the buttons of his dress shirt, sighing when he was done and stripped to just his boxers. "I suppose you have a plan to stop me calling for help the minute you leave," he said.

"Yep," Clint agreed. 

"I suppose it's going to hurt."

"I'm afraid so," Clint said, as he drew a shock arrow from his quiver and pressed it against Hammer's throat with a sharp jab. The man breathed in a little cry of alarm, and crumpled to the ground.

*

Regretfully, Clint stashed his bow and quiver behind an ostentatious plant holder. He tucked his pistol under the neat lines of the borrowed suit, along with Hammer's cell phone, and his own. Hammer had been right; both signals were dead. 

Clint straightened his borrowed bowtie and made for the stairs. On the floor below, the party was in full swing. Guests meandered from room to room, chattering noisily and no one gave him a second glance. Clint relaxed slightly, moving into the ballroom, where servers moved through with flutes of champagne and music played through unseen speakers. Unobtrusively Clint glanced to his right, and then to the left. He took another step forward, and came face to face with Black Widow.

Her red hair was immediately recognisable from Clint's target file. She was wearing a party dress, a slender black number that hugged her petite curves and barely concealed the fact that she was definitely armed. Up close she looked older than he'd expected, or maybe that was just something about her eyes. They were green and faded, the eyes of someone who was somewhere she didn't particularly want to be. Her gaze landed on him and then shifted away, uninterested. Her pupils moved automatically to scan the room. Definitely working, Clint thought.

She nodded politely as she moved to get around him. Fury had been clear. Black Widow was a priority target, but with no certain knowledge of where she'd come from or who might claim her as one of their own, the hit couldn't be identifiably SHIELD. Clint looked around the crowded room, and sighed.

The room was full of eyes. If he wanted to keep things stealth, Clint was going to have to buy a moment. Before he could think better of it, he looked directly at Black Widow to catch her gaze.

"Thank God," he said.

Black Widow's red eyebrows raised elegantly in her direction. "I'm sorry?" she asked, and Clint could hear the hint of an accent. Russian, or something close to it.

"Someone to talk to," Clint said, with forceful friendliness. "I've been dying of boredom. Not that anyone ever visits Northwood for the conversation," he added, as if it was an afterthought.

Black Widow's eyes remained watchful and wary, but her mouth relaxed enough to almost be a smile. "No," she agreed. She'd stopped moving, now standing close enough to Clint that he could smell her perfume. It wasn't too flowery, but something that made him think of a forest. "What would we talk about?"

"I'm sure we could come up with something. You like sports?"

"Not particularly." Black Widow was still smiling at him, or pretending to, but her gaze had drifted to a point across the room. Clint glanced in the same direction, expecting to see Northwood. Instead there was a group of party-goers deep in conversation, with one man standing a little apart from the rest. He wore his dark hair in a shaggy cut that hung in his face, and a featureless black tux.

"You know him?" Clint asked casually.

Black Widow's green eyes narrowed a little at that. Clint kept his expression mild, all banal pleasantness. "Are you here with someone?" she asked him, managing to sound only slightly curious.

Clint only winked, pairing it with a grin. "Are you asking if I'm single?"

Black Widow rolled her eyes slightly, a natural enough response that Clint couldn't help wondering if it was a glimpse of her real face. She seemed younger again, for a fleeting moment.

 _She's been on this earth long enough to cause a lot of damage._ Fury's words came back to him like an echo. "I'm Clint," he said.

"Natasha," she said, and maybe that, too, was her real face. Her real name. Clint couldn't tell. "Nice suit, Clint," Black Widow added, after a brief silence.

Clint's heart skipped a beat. He waited for her next words, but if Black Widow--Natasha--had made him already, and the slightly too-long cuffs of Hammer's suit, she didn't pursue it. "Thanks," Clint responded.

Black Widow nodded at him. "Make sure you get a good spot. The show's about to start." Before Clint could ask what that meant, she slipped away and into the crowd.

Clint muttered an irritated curse to himself, trying to pick up a glimpse of the shiny black of her dress, or the red of her hair. 

Before he could trace her again, the lights in the room shifted to a single focus, and the voices in the room dropped to a low murmur. Everyone in attendance turned towards the spotlight, and Clint shifted with them.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen." Brian Northwood stood in a spotlight in the centre of the  
crowd. There was no mistaking the close-cropped hair and dull black eyes that stared out of the photos in SHIELD Intelligence reports. 

Northwood raised his half-full champagne glass to the crowd. "I'm pleased you could all be here this evening." Northwood didn't sound pleased, or like he was experiencing any emotion at all. He spoke each word slowly and carefully, faintly sibilant like the hiss of a snake. "I'm sure you'll find the trip was worth it, once you understand what I have here. It's been the work of an entire year to put this file together." Northwood reached into his tuxedo jacket, pulling out a small case. He handed his half-drunk champagne to a woman standing nearby, and used his free hand to lift the catch. Nine small data keys sat neatly inside. "And someone in this room is about to reap the benefits."

Somewhere nearby in the crowd, a partygoer made an irritated noise. The woman standing next to Clint in muttered impatiently to her escort. 

Clint took a step in the direction he thought Black Widow had gone. Northwood was still speaking, but Clint's attention was only half-split on the meandering sales pitch. 

If he lost her here tonight, it might be some time before Intelligence picked up her trail again. The thought came to him along with a flash of amused green eyes as she'd told him her name. Clint sighed silently at himself. If he was this distracted, he'd lose her anyway. Clint clenched his fists, inwardly pulling at the threads of his scattered thoughts.

"SHIELD!" Northwood boomed, and Clint froze. After a tense, flitting second, then another, no attention came towards his direction. Northwood continued shouting at the crowd. "CIA! Interpol! Agencies all over the world throw money at new technology, and whenever they release that technology, the whole landscape of what we do changes in an instant." It was the opening to a sales pitch, clearly practised. Northwood continued. "But if you had the plans, you could get ahead of them. You could make counter weapons, or make everything faster and cheaper. You could make bullets that could penetrate even the most high-tech shield, or missiles that could drop a floating air carrier. I know it sounds crazy. But all these things are on their way. I have all the latest plans, right here."

Clint stared with renewed concern at the case in Northwood's hand.

"How much?" someone asked from the crowd.

Northwood's bald head bobbed up and down, acknowledging the question. "Depends how much you are willing to pay. And if you're thinking that the bait sounds good enough for a doublecross--don't. I promise I brought insurance tonight."

Black Widow. If she was specialised security, that at least explained what she was doing here. Floating air carrier--Clint's mind ran over the words. He knew that one. It was rumoured in the halls at SHIELD, but no one knew if it was months or years away from being real. If the plans were really floating out there, then anyone could make the tech to bring it down the minute it launched. Hundreds of agents could be killed.

Clint watched Northwood drone on, his mind racing as he considered his next move. He needed to report to base, and get new orders. But his comms were dead, and he was going to have to figure this one out on his own.

Black Widow had silently reappeared next to Northwood. Her eyes raised and met Clint's for a brief second. Clint stuck his hands in his pockets in a deliberate slouch, lowering his gaze far enough to pretend he was watching Northwood rather than his mark. It didn't seem to matter, as Black Widow had lost interest in him again. She shifted her head to study someone else in the crowd, and Clint guessed that if he turned his head, he'd see the same man she'd been watching before. The lithe lines of her body were tense enough to set Clint on edge. 

"We'll be taking bids over our electronic system!" Northwood shouted. On cue, something in Clint's jacket vibrated. So much for Justin Hammer's insistence that he hadn't been here to buy, Clint thought, as he pulled it out of the suit to look at it. Northwood lifted the first key from its case. A holographic image flickered in the air above the heads of the guests and disappeared. It had been engineering plans, gone too fast to read even if Clint knew how to follow them. 

"That's item one," Northwood intoned. "Something the U.S. Military has been working on for years, a material so light and strong--" Northwood droned on, giving numbers and measurements that meant nothing to Clint. The sharp-faced lady standing next to him was moving her fingers over the screen of her own device, tapping out a bid. After a moment she returned the device to her purse, looking satisfied. 

"Next up," Northwood announced, when there was a lull in the bidding. A hologram flashed and was gone, another set of plans. A wave of technobabble began again.

Clint found he'd caught Black Widow's attention once more. He moved his left hand across the screen of Hammer's electronic device, pretending to consider a bid, as Northwood moved on to the third set of plans, and the fourth. Black Widow stayed where she was, on the edges of the spotlight, watching the crowd. For the moment, there was nothing Clint could do to get her alone. He waited.

It felt like hours before Northwood neared the end of his list. "Item Eleven," Northwood intoned, finally. "A floating, flying air carrier, said to begin construction very shortly. Not only will it fly, but the plans include the latest in invisibility designs."

The device in his hand vibrated, and once again plans flashed across the screen. The murmur in the room grew louder. This was clearly Northwood's showpiece, the one he'd saved for last. Clint eyed the faces in the room. If he could identify the winning bidder, it was information he could pass on to Fury, a problem the director could set a team to work neutralising. For now he'd have to tread carefully, as Black Widow was watching him, and Clint had his own problems. 

The woman next to Clint was bidding again, whispering something to her companion. Northwood was talking about engines, ignoring the fact that few in the room were playing close attention to the stream of numbers and measurements. Black Widow remained on guard, her hands at the skirt of her dress, ready to reach for her weapon. Clint kept scanning the room and cataloguing the number of attendees he could recognise from their SHIELD files.

There was a small blur of movement in Northwood's direction. Both Clint and Black Widow turned their heads towards it in the same instant. There was an overwhelming plume of smoke, an improbably pink-purple colour, that blurred Clint's vision and filled his mouth with a bitter taste. 

Someone near to him screamed, high-pitched and frantic. Clint could hear a solid thump as something, or someone, large hit the ground. He reached into his pocket, already reaching for his gun and a light mask that would keep the worst of the smoke out of his lungs, sparing a reluctant thought for the arrows that were too far away to retrieve. Around him people were recovering from their initial surprise, making rustling noises amid cautious movements. Clint pushed forward. When he reached the center of the room, he found Northwood was on the ground, bleeding from the shoulder, breathing heavily. His hands were empty.

Black Widow had left his side. She was running at full speed, on the heels of a shadowy figure tumbling out of the smoky darkness, through the open ballroom windows. Clint dashed in the same direction after them both. Clint's lungs huffed with the effort of speed, as the chase wound across the stone terrace and around the house, under a glowing streak of moonlight. The thief--a man, Clint guessed from this distance--probably the same mysterious man who had caught Black Widow's attention earlier in the evening. She had good instincts, Clint thought, as he tumbled over a hedge and almost crashed into the side of a parked vehicle. Black Widow swerved around it, but the thief had already used the distraction to pull away from his pursuers. He jumped into a nearby car, a sleek black sports car whose engine had already started running. Black Widow drew a sidearm from her skirt and fired, cursing in Russian as all her shots bounced off the matte paint exterior. Clint's own shots were closer, but the thief evaded them with a quickly slammed door. The car raced off into the darkened night.

On a hunch, Clint felt in the suit pockets for the keys he'd identified earlier, and squeezed the largest button. A hundred yards away, tail lights lit up as a car unlocked. Clint raced towards it. It was red and flashy, the exact type of rental Justin Hammer would be driving. Clint just hoped it was fast.

Black Widow was still standing in the drive, her head turning at the sound of the car moving. Clint reached over to crack open the passenger-side door, shouting, "Get in!"

Black Widow blinked at him in surprise, then sprung towards the car and into the seat with the agility of a cat. She slammed the door closed as she tucked her limbs into the car, and then they sped off through the gate.

The rear lights of the thief's black car were still visible ahead of them, down the winding one lane road. Clint sped as fast as the car would go, trying to catch up, but the other car remained stubbornly ahead. Clint glanced at Black Widow as he shifted gears.

"That list your boss was reading out sounded pretty dangerous," Clint said, with feigned casualness. Black Widow shrugged, her red hair moving with the motion. "He wasn't really waving all that important data around in the open like that, was he?"

"Clients aren't always the best strategists," Black Widow answered. Her clipped words sounded annoyed.

"Hey, I didn't say it was your fault. I was just hoping--fuck." Clint broke off the rest of his sentence, releasing a hand from the steering wheel to pull something from his pants pocket. Black Widow flinched, then relaxed again as he drew out the communicator that would link him to SHIELD. She reached into her dress, making Clint tense, watching as she retrieved a smooth, flat screen.

"That a tracking device?" he asked, as a map on the screen began to blink.

"It's like I said. Clients are not always the best strategists."

Clint nodded, taking a sharp curve to keep up with the taillights in front of him. "Great. If we fall behind him, you can point me in the right direction."

Black Widow frowned at him. "You want me to help you navigate?"

"Unless you'd rather lose him. Come on, I'm sure you usually work solo, but you can make an exception for the next few minutes, right?" Ahead the tail lights lowered out of sight for a moment, speeding into a dip in the road.

She nodded, studying the face of the device. Ahead, the car swerved out of view completely. Black Widow muttered something in Russian, with an irritated breath.

"Bad?" Clint asked her.

"He's headed west. I scouted the area yesterday. The only thing up that way is an old airstrip. And some cows," she added, after a second.

"Great." Clint drew out his comm, pressing a button to connect him to Coulson at HQ.

"Hawkeye. Good to hear from you. What's your status?"

"Stole a car. In pursuit of a target," Clint began. He heard Coulson's breath of confusion.

"You stole a vehicle and are in pursuit of the B--"

"Actually on a side mission right now," Clint said, cutting Coulson off as fast as he could. 

"A side mission," Coulson repeated flatly.

"Yeah. Think you'd agree it was pretty important. "

"Okay. I have your position," Coulson said. "You were off radar for a while. You know you're doing about one-oh-five?"

"Hammer's piece of shit rental can't go any faster. Shit," Clint muttered as the left turn came up abruptly, and he swerved widely. "C, I am going to hang up, but I took some photos at the party and I'm going to need you to tell me if you can find an ID. I'm starting to get the feeling I might need backup."

When the connection clicked off, Black Widow was watching him. "Who do you work for?" she asked bluntly.

Clint blew out a breath, considering. Then he told the truth. "SHIELD."

Black Widow made a noise, and Clint added, "You heard of us?"

"I've heard of you," was all she said.

"Okay. Now I've got a question for you. You knew this guy was trouble, back at the party. You've run into him before?"

Black Widow shook her head. "I don't think so. But he had eyes like he was up to something." She paused. "Like you."

Despite the tense chase, the observation amused him. "Is that right?"

Black Widow nodded. "Also, that suit doesn't fit you." 

Clint glanced down at the tux, now rumpled from the chase through the gardens. "I thought I looked okay."

"Didn't say you didn't," Black Widow answered, with a hint of the light, flirtations that had passed between them in the ballroom. She glanced down at the scanner in her hand, but it wasn't needed. Ahead of Clint, maybe a half-mile away, a row of bright lights cut through the dark night. 

"Air field's coming up," Clint said, and then he was driving through the gate and onto the lit tarmac. The car's tires skidded, as he came to an abrupt stop.

Black Widow leapt out, weapon drawn, shooting at the small plane as the thief boarded and disappeared behind the hatch. Clint shot off another tracing pellet at the plane's belly as it gathered speed, wheels bouncing off the runway as it lifted into the air. With the loud grind of its engines, the plane was overhead and away.

Clint picked up his comm with a sigh. "Phil? I'm going to need a ride now."

"I'm on my way. You going to tell me what's going on?" Coulson asked him.

"Well," Clint began, then stopped. Black Widow had turned to face him, her weapon extended and leveled in his direction. Her eyes were dark and mistrustful. "Okay, I've got something to work out here. I'll see you soon."

He abruptly dropped the comm, raising both hands in the air. "Hey. I thought we were working together."

Black Widow shook her head. "That was temporary. You and I could never work together."

"Why not? Is it the Russia-USA thing? Because that seems kind of old-fashioned."

Black Widow tapped her foot impatiently. "You are SHIELD. But you weren't there for Northwood, or the plans. I saw your face when he announced them. You were surprised. So who were you there for?" 

The barrel of the gun remained steady, pointed at his neck. Clint knew he couldn't trust that she'd miss. "Classified," he said, with feigned lightness. "But I'd just like to point out that that room was full of high-value targets."

"It was," Natasha agreed, thoughtfully. Her face was shadowed under the glare of the runway lights. "But you were only staring at me."

"You're easy to look at."

There was a beat, a pause in which the world seemed to slow. Clint could see Black Widow thinking, considering.

He could see the decision in her eyes as she made it. Clint's left leg came up in a hard kick, and the gun went flying out of her hand across the paved ground. She brought both empty hands up as fists, throwing two punches that landed in quick succession. Clint shook off the ringing in his ears, pushing her back with an elbow that landed squarely in her gut. She was small, but fast, and good enough to knock him off his balance more than once. They fought across the tarmac, to nothing but the sound of brutal hits meeting flesh.

A series of low kicks swept Clint to the ground.

He lay on his back, breathing hard. Black Widow landed on top of him, straddling his torso. Clint watched her, considering his next move. She was still wearing the gloves that had matched her evening dress, and now she pulled them both off and drew a knife from her clothing.

Clint opened his mouth to speak. A bare hand fell on his throat.

A jolt of something sparking like lightning swept over him, stealing the air from his lungs. Flat on his back, Clint could see a bright gleam of electricity light up the night, jumping from her skin to his.

A soul spark. Clint had seen them in movies, how they were supposed to happen when soulmates first touched. The lightning bounced from skin to skin hard enough that Black Widow's fingers loosened, the knife dropping from her grasp. She didn't move to retrieve it, and neither did Clint. He was helpless and frozen, staring up at her.


	2. 2027

The message had been unexpected. Clint spent most days on the farm. He spoke to Wanda a lot, and Thor occasionally, and Sam when he and Bucky weren't busy doing Captain America things. There were a handful of agents from SHIELD that texted him sometimes, the few close acquaintances that hadn't vanished in the HYDRA cleanup. Sometimes Clint thought his friends were mainly checking to make sure he wasn't falling apart. Sometimes he wasn't sure what to tell them.

He had one good distraction, though, and that was his kids. Even if he only had them on weekends, when Clint got into his truck and picked them up from the city. Maybe he could stop by their house on his way back, Clint thought, when he got the message from Director Fury. It was unscheduled, and Laura wouldn't like it, but it couldn't hurt much to take them to dinner, even on a school night. Fury hadn't said what the meeting was about, just informed him that he had an appointment and a temporary pass waiting at the gates. 

"I'm retired," Clint had grumbled at his phone, but he'd shown up anyway on a chilly Tuesday afternoon. If it was a pitch for him to rejoin SHIELD, or the Avengers, Clint would just turn it down like he had the last three times.

He was expecting Fury, though, and the sight of Coulson in Fury's office brought Clint up cold. Coulson sat in the chair behind the large desk, sipping from an oversized coffee mug. Clint walked in, and stopped dead.

"Thought you were retired," Clint said, as he mastered his surprise and sat down.

"Just like you," Coulson answered, with a placid shrug.

"No, because I actually stay retired, instead of delivering messages for Fury."

"Maybe I just wanted to see you," Coulson said, and Clint rolled his eyes with impatience. He was glad to see Phil, but he recognised a Fury play when he was in the middle of it.

"No, Fury's got something to tell me, or sell me, and whatever it is he thinks it needs a soft touch."

"Or a friend," Coulson said. His voice lifted, the register turning too kind. 

Clint breathed out. "Okay. It's bad news. Lay it on me. Rip the bandaid off." It couldn't be worse than the time the world ended, Clint thought to himself, a little maniacally. His mind whirling and spinning through the past, he almost missed Coulson's next words.

"It's not--it's not bad news. It's good news. But no one knows exactly what to do. Fury thought maybe you were the man for the job." Coulson pushed a tablet across the desk, and waited for Clint to pick it up.

Clint fingered the tablet, tilting it towards his eye level. He stared at it, suddenly frozen as an icy sensation gripped him. "What the fuck is this?"

Coulson nodded, as if that was the reaction he'd expected. "A picture of Natasha Romanov. Taken two days ago."

"Natasha's dead." Clint had been there. He'd watched her fall. He'd heard her last words, and he'd heard them again, in his sleep every night. Still, the lines of the face in the photo were familiar. Her hair seemed different, longer and coloured dark. But Clint knew those eyes by heart. "Someone's messing with you."

"Clint." Coulson spoke very quietly. "It's not an LMD, or a Skrull. We ran a blood test."

"You got this person," not Natasha, Clint couldn't call her Natasha, not yet, "to sit still for that?"

"No. We found a way."

"Great. You've got agents tracking her. Has anyone actually talked to her?"

"Not yet," Coulson said, leaving the rest unsaid. _That's why you're here._

"Okay." Clint breathed carefully, still staring. "Where is she?"

"Berlin," Coulson said, after a short, reluctant pause.

Clint blinked. "Now I really think you're fucking with me."

Coulson stared back at him. "Do you?"

Fate was an asshole. That was undeniable, especially when soulmates were involved, but Coulson couldn't know that was a factor, Clint thought.

Shit. The realisation struck.

"Did Natasha tell you?" Clint asked, after a silence in which he couldn't quite decide what to say. 

"She told Fury. I don't think she took it very seriously, but he did. I'm sorry," Coulson added. It was a quiet apology for knowing something so private that Clint had never spoken about it to anyone.

"I'm surprised Fury still paired us up after that."

"Are you?" Coulson asked, and then without waiting for an answer, said, "It doesn't make much sense. But if there's a Link in play, then we can't rule anything out."

Soul bonds were always a wildcard, the most unpredictable of oh-eight-fours. The soul stone had taken her, and now she waa back. It didn't make any sense, and Clint couldn't understand.

He stood. "I'm leaving right now. I don't care what paperwork--"

"Clint." Coulson stood with him, hands spread. "Of course you're going to leave right now." He paused, taking a breath. "Just bring her home."

*

"Dad!" Lila answered the landline.

"Hey, kiddo." Clint listened to a fast-paced recap of the day at school before he interrupted. "Just letting you know I'm going away for a couple of days. I'll miss you."

"Go where? Did something bad happen?" Of course she asked that, because for the kids that was the only reason their father ever went anywhere. Clint's throat closed with emotion. The kids missed Natasha like he did, but he couldn't say anything. Not until he was sure.

"It's not exactly bad news," Clint managed to say. "But it's far away. I'll show you on the map when I get back. I'll call you every day, I promise. Can you put your mom on?"

*

He was on his way by dusk. They'd booked him a commercial flight, packed full with travelers. Clint sat wedged between a surly businesswoman and a university student, who struck up a conversation with Clint about the waning baseball season before falling asleep.

They arrived in the morning. Clint should have gone to his hotel, he knew. He should have taken a nap, or a shower, and figured out what the hell he was going to say. If it was really her. Instead, he went straight to the address that Coulson had given him. The dance studio operated out of a tiny storefront sitting in between a pharmacy and a candle shop. Dance School, read a painted sign over the window. A poster in the window advertised class times. Clint studied it, checked his watch, then circled the block. There was a coffee shop across the street, and he crossed to enter, hoping the activity would cover the fact that he was lingering on the street without anything to do. 

The young barista spoke English with a crisp German lilt, patiently putting up with Clint's small talk. Yes, it was a good neighbourhood for small business. She owned the shop, and had been here four years. All her neighbouring stores had been here longer, except for the school across the street. That had popped up some time after the end of the Snap, she said. She guessed a lot of people were taking up new hobbies now.

"I'm learning to paint," she explained, as she slid Clint's coffee across the counter.

Clint nodded. "I'm teaching my kids archery. They're getting pretty good."

He wished her a good morning, and circled the block once more. 

"We're not open yet," the woman said in German, without looking up.

"Just as well. I'd make a terrible ballerina, right?"

The woman froze, mid-movement. She took a deep breath before she looked up, and then Clint was staring into the unmistakable features of his best friend. Natasha's face was as he remembered it. Her colouring had gone suddenly pale as she stared at him. 

"Surprise," Clint added, with a weak smile. His skin felt as if he'd gone cold.

Natasha fumbled the key in the lock. The uncertainty lasted the space of a breath, and then she recovered, pushing the creaking door open. She didn't say anything, but gestured Clint inside.

Inside, the silence remained. Clint watched as Natasha took off her coat, hanging it behind the desk. She pulled up the blinds, turned on the small computer that sat behind the desk, then checked for messages on the phone. Clint watched her, unable to tear his eyes away. Just like in the photo he'd seen, she'd done something to her hair, but it was still Natasha in front of him, real and alive.

When she was done she looked up, studying his face as if searching for clues to a mystery. Finally she exhaled, her body darting forward. Clint's hands came up in shock, then relaxed as Natasha's arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace. Her face rested against the thick leather of his jacket, a warm weight on his chest. He hugged her back, breathing in her faint scent. She smelled a little different, he thought. Was that possible? 

"Hey,"he said quietly, into her hair.

Natasha swallowed a sound like a chuckle, then pulled free, shaking her head. "Hey yourself. What are you doing here?"

"What am I--" Clint began to repeat, then broke off, shaking his head in disbelief. "Nat. You must have known someone would find you."

She acknowledged that with a one-shouldered shrug that was so familiar that Clint ached at the sight. "I guess so. But I didn't know--I didn't think it would be you."

"Jesus, Nat. Why not?"

She hesitated. "Aren't you still mad at me?"

For falling, she meant, and taking the sacrifice that should have been his. He'd been furious, some days. Clint said, "So mad that I didn't want you to come back? Come on. Tell me what's going on."

Natasha's expression in response wasn't a confirmation or a denial, or anything that Clint could read. He could feel, though, that there was something she wasn't saying, and that was when he realised. He could feel her, faint but there, the way that she'd always been there before.

She'd come back, and the Link had come back with her. Which was okay, Clint thought. If Natasha was here, alive, he'd take everything that came with it, even her secretive habits and their strange, one-sided Link.

When Natasha raised her eyebrows at him, Clint realised that he'd lapsed into silence, staring. "What?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing. I'm just looking at my friend, who's come back from the dead. Are you going to tell me how that happened, by the way?"

Natasha glanced at the small digital clock on the desk. She said, "I have to get ready for my first class. I can meet you afterwards. You can interrogate me then."

"Don't think I won't," Clint said. "Where?"

"The place across the street makes pretty good lunch," Natasha suggested, and Clint nodded.

"Yeah, I know it. It's a date."

Natasha smiled back, a little. "Twelve thirty."

*

Clint didn't leave. He lingered on the street, watching as a small parade of young women came in and made their way to the studio. When the class started, music filtering out from behind the closed door, Clint went straight to the desk and tapped on the computer keyboard. Natasha wouldn't like it, but she also wouldn't have done any differently, Clint thought. Well, the old Natasha wouldn't have. Maybe he didn't know the new one at all.

*

Natasha was on time, waiting patiently at a corner table when he arrived, and that was so much like the old Natasha that Clint relaxed a little. 

"Hey," he said, sliding into the seat opposite the one he'd chosen. The shop owner acknowledged Clint's return with a nod of her head, blonde hair bobbing as she took Clint's order for more coffee, and the largest sandwich on the menu.

Natasha raised her eyebrows at him. "Didn't eat breakfast?"

"Or dinner," Clint admitted. Now that he'd seen her, held her, the adrenaline of anticipation was dissipating. He felt like he could think again. He dragged restless palms across the rough texture of his jeans. "Why Berlin?"

Natasha shrugged. She looked good for someone who'd been dead, her hair back to its familiar deep red, curling around her ears and down her nape. "I like Berlin. I was born here."

That wasn't right, of course. She'd been born outside Moscow, to parents she didn't remember. Clint raised his eyebrows. "It's weird when you talk about the different parts of your life like they're different people, like that."

"But it makes it easier."

"Is that what this is? You're a different person now? Because it's easier?"

Nataaha's mouth turned down in something like a wince, and Clint bit his lip. "Shit. Sorry."

"No. You always tell me what you think. It's good. I missed it."

Their food arrived then, interrupting Clint's next words. He took a large bite of his sandwich before he said, "Okay, look, start at the beginning. How?"

"I don't really have a good answer to that. I was gone, and then I wasn't," Natasha said quietly. No one was paying them any attention under the lunchtime noise, but she lowered her voice anyway.

"You just…woke up? In Berlin?"

Natasha shook her head. "I was in the stone. Pretty far away."

"In the Soul Stone?" After the battle, Strange had taken charge of splitting up the stones so they could never be used again. He hadn't invited Clint to be in his secret stone hiding club, and that was fine with Clint. He hadn't asked about it.

"That's what it felt like. Now that I'm here, on the outside, it feels impossible, but when I was inside, I just knew that that's where I was."

"How'd you get out?"

Natasha's wry smile was an acknowledgement that she'd heard the question, but she didn't answer. "When I made it out, I was on a planet I didn't know. Then I hitched a ride--" Natasha broke off as someone walked by their table, then finished her sentence quietly. "--back home."

"About that," Clint said. "When are you actually coming home?"

Natasha looked at him for a long time. "It's like you said. I don't know if that's who I am anymore."

"Don't tell me you've become a baseball fan."

Natasha smiled at the joke, reaching for her cup of sugary, milky coffee in the centre of the table. "And a morning person."

"Now I'm sure you've been replaced by an LMD," Clint shot back with a grin.

"Hmm." Natasha tilted her head, thinking. "Was that a concern?"

"Seemed more likely than a fucking miracle," Clint pointed out. Which was what she was, sitting in front of him with one hand clasped around her coffee, making jokes with him like she'd never gone anywhere.

Clint reached for his own cup, next to her, and his fingers brushed the back of her hand. He felt it immediately, a small, unmistakable spark and the blue light of energy jumping from his skin to hers. It wasn't the bright flash that signaled a Link forming. People called them echoes, and sometimes they still happened long after the original Link had been formed. It was a rare sensation, but familiar to him.

Clint didn't draw his hand back too quickly. That would have been a tell, one that Natasha would have caught right away. She lifted her hand first, and when Clint raised his eyes to look at her face, she didn't seem to have noticed anything at all. That made sense, to Clint. She'd never felt anything before.

Clint hid his mouth behind his cup, and asked, "Can I visit you again?"

Natasha eyed him, and kicked him gently under the table. "Of course you can." 

*

Clint went back to his hotel room, and called Coulson. It took several tries before he'd explained what he had found.

"I don't know, Phil. She says she's retired." 

"Do you believe that?"

Clint sighed. "I don't know. I pulled her student list." The reception desk computer had had no password, which was sloppy, for Nat. Maybe she was doing exactly what she said she was doing, retiring from spy shit, and she wasn't coming back. "Can you run it?"

"Sure," Coulson said. "What am I looking for?"

"I don't know. Some reason she'd be here, instead of anywhere else." Clint sighed, sitting down heavily on the bed. "It could be just wishful thinking, but something feels weird."

"If she's in trouble, we'll help her," Coulson promised. "Now I've got a job for you."

"Shoot."

"Get some shuteye."

Clint grinned into the phone. "Yes, boss." 

"And send me the list. I'll call you back if I get anything."

*

Clint went to the dance school again the next morning, dodging a crowd of waiting senior citizens in sweats and leotards to find Natasha at the desk. She was on the phone, giving crisp instructions in German. She acknowledged his presence with a smile after she'd hung up. "You sleep okay?"

He'd slept great, actually, better than he had in a pretty long time.

"Did you talk to Phil?" Clint asked, then widened his eyes at her answering shrug. "You did. That's great."

"He called right after he spoke to you, I think." Natasha looked down, but she sounded faintly pleased. "Now the word's out, the phone will be ringing off the hook."

"It's still need to know right now," Clint said, watching her. "Unless--do you want the phone to ring? I could tell Sam? And maybe Wanda? Wanda can add you back to her recipe email chain. It'll be great."

"Maybe just you and Phil for now," Natasha answered.

"And Fury."

"And Nick," Natasha agreed. She gestured to the waiting women behind him. "I've got to work, but, uh. We could have lunch again?"

"Sure," Clint said quickly. "Same time?"

Natasha nodded, and then she stepped out from behind the desk, calling the students' attention with a short burst of German. 

*

Clint breathed a small sigh of relief when Natasha walked into the cafe at the appointed time. And that wasn't going to work, he couldn't start panicking every time Natasha wasn't in the room, he scolded himself silently. She sat down, and smiled at him.

Clint ordered the same meal he had the day before and picked up his steaming hot coffee, being careful not to accidentally touch Natasha again as she watched him across the table.

"How was class?"

"Okay. How are the kids?"

"They're fine. They live in Chicago with their mom." At Natasha's muted reaction, Clint added, "You knew that."

"I had to look some things up."

"Yeah, I guess. You missed a lot."

"You get used to it, though, don't you?" Natasha asked. "Explaining to people what they missed." 

Clint nodded. It wasn't unusual to be talking to someone who didn't remember some key event of the last few years, because they simply hadn't been there. Clint stumbled over his next words, realising he had no idea how to quickly summarise the wreck of his recent life. Natasha had read about it, but she couldn't know what it had been like.

"It was always weird for her, being married to someone with a Link to someone else. Even one as fucked up as ours. She did her best," Clint continued, as Natasha opened her mouth with a frown, "but it was weird. And I think it was much, much worse when the other side of that Link died."

There was silence, and the din of clinking cups and plates at the tables around them.

"It wasn't anybody's fault," Clint added. Least of all Natasha's, who wasn't responsible for a Link she couldn't even feel. Who'd died saving the entire world.

Natasha, who was alive and sitting in front of him with sympathetic eyes. "Still sounds hard. How are the kids taking it?"

"By taking full advantage. I bought Cooper a new bike."

"Yeah? You have pictures?"

Clint grinned, reaching into his jacket for his phone. "Of course I have pictures."

*

Coulson called him that evening. Clint paced his hotel room, as Coulson told him what he'd found.

"I ran all the names. There's nothing there, just little kids and bored retirees learning the plié."

"Phil. I didn't know you were a ballet fan."

"Don't tell anybody. Are you coming home?"

Clint hesitated. "Is Fury ordering me to?"

"Fury can't order you anywhere, remember? You're retired."

Clint thought of Natasha's school, and the determination with which she'd said she was staying. "That makes three of us."

*

They met the next day, and the day after that. Always for lunch, Clint doing his best to make pleasant conversation and catch Natasha up on the years she had missed. Some of it she'd been tracking on her own. Sam and Bucky and T'Challa were easy enough to google, but Clint filled her in anyway, on the parts that hadn't made the news. 

On Sundays and Mondays the school was closed, something Natasha informed him of in a text late on Saturday night. She still texted like she talked, with short, crisp sentences, Clint noticed.

_We can do something else._

_What do you have in mind?_ Clint typed back.

That was how he found himself chasing Natasha over an old bridge the next day, then winding their way through a crowded park. Natasha finally stopped at the riverbank, grinning at him in victory. Clint pulled up, gasping for breath.

"You were out of the training game for two years. How are you still faster than me?"

Natasha had tied her dark hair into a ponytail, wearing a sweatshirt and leggings, and Clint was probably never going to stop being surprised to see her standing in front of him, wiping sweat from her forehead. "I'm younger than you," she pointed out.

"Only on a weird technicality."

Natasha grinned. "Then maybe I'm just better at everything."

"I've thought it over," Clint said, still breathing too hard as he pulled at the tab on his water bottle, "and I'd prefer the LMD. LMDs don't talk back, do they?"

Natasha arched her eyebrows. "And here I thought you missed me."

"Like I was dying," Clint said honestly, then to cover the awkward silence that followed, "Race you back?" 

"Only if you're ready to lose again."

"Oh, I'd be careful trying to beat me at trash talk," Clint shot back, and then they were off, still laughing, racing down the path, zigzagging between ambling tourists.

*

The next week passed in the same way. Clint slid into his usual seat on a Thursday afternoon, and said, "I was helping Cooper with his school project last night."

"What was it?"

Clint shrugged. "He had to write a story about Ancient Egypt. I couldn't help thinking it was the kind of thing Auntie Nat would have been way better at." 

It was getting harder and harder, to talk to the kids and not tell them what he knew. "You sound different," Laura had said to him the night before, and Clint hadn't quite known how to reply.

"That doesn't actually sound like something I'd be good at."

"Sure it is. You're great at making up stories."

Natasha cocked her eyebrows at him, and Clint laughed.

"I meant school essays. Lila's still got the one you helped her write, about the trip to the museum. She misses you. They all do."

"Subtle," Natasha said with a sigh.

"Subtle's not really my main skill," Clint answered. He dropped the subject then, turning to his coffee, and was surprised when Natasha picked it up again at the end of lunch, cutting off Clint's meandering rattle of stories she'd missed.

"Do you think he'll understand?" Natasha asked him.

"I don't know." Clint shrugged. "You can't protect everyone from what they do or don't understand. It's like I said. He misses you, Nat. They all do."

Natasha nodded. "I'll think about it." 

Clint felt suddenly lighter, smiling at her as she kicked back her chair and stood. 

"I've got to get back to work." She paused, looking at him. "See you tomorrow?" 

"Of course," Clint said. He sat staring at Natasha's empty seat for a moment over the last sips of coffee. Then he rose, nearly bumping into the shop owner as she came up from behind him with a tray.

"Shit. Sorry," Clint said, dodging as quickly as he could.

She looked up at him. "No harm done," she said. 

"I'm Clint," Clint added. "You must be getting tired of us, in here all the time."

"Lana," the owner introduced herself in return, then turned and began clearing a neighbouring table as she talked. "And not at all. Your friend used to come in for lunch every day. It's not much different with you, now."

Clint forced his mouth into another smile, to hide his surprise. "Every day?"

"Yes." Lana nodded at him absently. "I'm glad she likes it here."

"It's a great place," Clint said, but his tone was distracted as he moved to leave. "Thanks. You have a great day." 

Lana nodded, as Clint hurried out of the café's front door and onto the windy street.

*

He called Coulson as he swiped the lock on his hotel room, opening the door and moving into the quiet room. "Hey. I've got more names for you to run."

"Clint." Coulson yawned audibly into the phone. "I am actually retired. I haven't even made coffee yet."

Clint frowned into the phone. It wasn't the response he had expected. "You think I'm wasting your time?" he asked.

"I didn't say that. But Natasha's been pretty clear that she's retired, and she isn't ready to come home.

"I get that."

"Do you?" Phil asked, voice sharp. "It makes sense, Clint. She's been through a lot."

"Are you speaking from experience?" 

"Maybe. And maybe there's no magic explanation, no spy stuff happening here. Just Natasha trying to move on."

Clint considered that. Ran it over, but he couldn't agree to it. It didn't feel right. He said, "I have a feeling."

"You have a feeling," Coulson repeated.

"Yes."

"A Link sort of a feeling?"

"Maybe?" Clint said. He wasn't sure. Natasha had been gone for years, and they'd been apart before that. Maybe the Link wasn't the same.

"Did you get these a lot?" 

"Sometimes. Didn't you ever wonder why we had such good mission stats?"

"I honestly tried not to," Coulson answered, sighing. "Okay. I'll run it. Who are the names?"

Clint shook his head into the phone. "Not who. Where. I think we should run all the businesses on her street. Maybe even a two or three block spread."

Coulson considered that for a moment. "Yeah. Okay."

*

Phil called him back only a few hours later, sounding surprised. "Most of the businesses are clean."

"Except for the café?" Clint asked.

"Yeah. Except for the café. That's run by a Lana Weber."

"That doesn't ring any bells."

"It wouldn't. She's young, right? Twenties? She changed her name as a teenager. Her birth name is Northwood."

"Lana Northwood."

"That's right."

Clint had a flash of memory. "What the fuck is Natasha up to?"

*

He didn't wait to ask. He went straight to Natasha's home address, and she let him in in the falling daylight. She was wearing casual clothes, the television blaring a nature documentary.

"Why are you tracking Lana Northwood?" Clint asked, without preamble.

"It seems," Natasha said after a pause, "like the question is why you're tracking me."

Clint sighed. "It's hard for me to do anything else, Nat. I appreciate that you don't get that on your end, but it's how it is. I've had this weird feeling since I got to Berlin, and it's only getting worse." Clint took a deep breath, exhaling the weight of shit he hadn't meant to say. "Your turn."

Natasha didn't reply. She was staring at him in the warm light of her apartment, her eyes slightly wide.

"Lana was a kid when we were here before. She can't have done anything to get on one of your lists."

"It's not that kind of list." Natasha sighed. "This explanation is going to need whiskey."

Clint took off his jacket. He accepted the tumbler full of amber liquid and sat next to Natasha on her couch, watching her stare at nothing as she considered how to start.

"What do you remember about it?"

"Other than almost dying?" Clint asked, then smiled teasingly when Natasha rolled her eyes at him. "I remember we worked really well together. I remember we recovered all the plans, right? Case closed."

"We didn't," Natasha said. 

Clint looked up from his drink. "Explain."

"Northwood was a collector, remember? He'd collected more things that he didn't want to sell yet. Those things weren't in the case."

"How do you know that?"

"Didn't you ever wonder who helped him steal them in the first place?"

Clint nodded. He hadn't, but it made sense. "How bad?"

"Pretty bad. But Northwood died a few years ago, and the missing plans never surfaced."

"And now you think Lana knows where they are?"

"No. But I think some other people think that she does. I've been online. It became a bit of a treasure hunt while I was gone. Obviously some are obsolete now, but others--" Natasha shrugged. "She didn't follow her father into the business. She has no way to deal with what might be coming."

"That doesn't explain why you're here."

"You don't understand."

"No, I understand," Clint shot back, words sharpening involuntarily. "You're working on your ledger, because somehow, after all this, you still don't think you've given enough. And you didn't ask anyone for help, because you never do."

Stubbornly, Natasha shook her head, flushing with irritation. "Clint, I was doing fine before you got here."

"Doesn't mean you couldn't use a hand. We're friends, Natasha."

Natasha's brows raised questioningly. "Is that how you think you look at me? Like we're friends?"

Clint's mouth stretched into a grimace. He lifted the glass in his hand, draining it in a single swallow. "I always forget how hard you hit."

"Sorry," Natasha said after a beat.

"You don't have to be sorry. What I would like is for you to come home."

"I can't do that yet."

"But you will?" His voice softened.

"Eventually. Just not right now."

They said good night at the door. Clint's hand brushed her bare arm, and he held his breath, but there was no crackle of Link energy this time, just the softness of Natasha's skin and the warmth of her body. Breathing. Alive. It was more than he'd expected, and Clint knew that it had to be enough.

*

Clint woke up to a bright, crisp fall morning with his decision made. He stuffed his rumpled clothing back into his single small suitcase, and texted his kids.

_Dad's on his way home. See you soon._

After that, he only had one goodbye left to say. Clint made his way to Natasha's school. She was just opening up for the morning, catching his eye through the windows before she opened the door to let him in.

"You're a little early for lunch," she said.

"Yeah, I know. I think I'm going to get going."

Natasha actually looked surprised at that, her dark brows shooting upwards. "You're leaving?"

"Yeah. Lila's got a recital thing on Sunday, and you don't actually need me here, so…" Clint let his sentence trail off.

"Just so you know, Clint Barton, I always like having you around." She smiled. "But I get it. Go, hug the kids. Tell them I said hi."

"Yeah?" Clint asked.

Natasha nodded, and then moved to hug him. Her arms wrapped around him, and Clint sighed into her ear.

"Gonna miss you," he whispered.

"I know. But I'll be right here. And you know you can call me if the world's ending, or whatever."

"Don't even joke about that," Clint said. The goodbye lingered, finally interrupted by the ringing phone. 

"Bye," Natasha mouthed silently, as she moved to answer it. Clint backed out of the building, and closed the door.

He jogged across the street and entered the coffee shop. Lana looked up as he approached the counter.

"You're early. Your soulmate isn't here yet."

Clint couldn't help the frown that crossed his face. "She's not my soulmate." Which she wasn't, by the usual definitions. A normal Link worked both ways.

"Oh." Lana looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I know Americans don't like to talk about it."

"It's not that, it's just not…" Clint shrugged, and left off the awkward sentence. "Can I just have my usual, to go?"

"Of course. Are you going somewhere?"

"Home."

"Oh. That will be nice." Lana worked for a minute, and there was a clatter and a splash, and Clint looked over the counter to see milk dripping from the countertop. Lana sprang backwards to avoid the mess, staring in dismay. "I'm sorry, I'll have to start over. I'll need fresh milk." Lana shouted something in German at the coworker across the room, and smiled at Clint. "It's in the kitchen. I'll be right back."

Clint nodded. He stepped back to wait, scrolling through his phone, where he had a reminder from the airline to check into his flight, and a string of bad jokes and worse photos Scott had sent him.

Lana finally returned, fussing busily at the coffee machine before handing him a coffee cup. "There you go. Your sandwich will be just another minute."

Clint nodded, pulling up the lid to sip the hot liquid. Lana's coffee was much better than the hotel's coffee, and he'd drunk half the cup before Lana returned with a plastic takeout container. "Have a safe trip."

*

Clint stepped out onto the street. The midday sun was blinding now, and Clint squinted to shield his eyes.

A dark car pulled up to the curb, the passenger-side window rolling down as it came to a stop.

"Mister Barton?" the driver asked, from behind dark glasses.

"Yeah," Clint said, then frowned to himself. Had he called a car? He couldn't remember. The too-bright sunlight glinted off the hood of the car, blurring Clint's vision, and the sidewalk seemed to sway for an instant. Clint took a step towards the car, then another.

The world around him fell into blackness.


	3. 2008

Clint sat in the Quinjet as it flew over the Baltic Sea, across from Black Widow, who hadn't taken her eyes off him since they'd boarded. Clint hadn't been surprised when the plane landed, and instead of an unfamiliar SHIELD pilot, Coulson had been aboard.

"I thought you were only coming in emergencies," Clint said.

"We really need to work on your definition of emergency," Coulson had answered. He looked to Clint's right and said, "Black Widow, I presume."

Black Widow surprised him by answering, "Natasha."

"Natasha. Thank you for helping. Is she helping?" This last he said to Clint, who nodded.

"She's the reason we can track the case."

Natasha spoke up, her voice cool. "If I retrieve the plans, I have to return them to my employer. That's what I'm being paid for."

"Is that actually what you want to do?" Clint asked her.

Natasha's brows creased in a moment of surprise, and Clint wondered if she'd ever been asked that before. He pressed on.

"You heard his sales pitch. You know how dangerous those things are," Clint added.

Natasha's face smoothed back into a mask, neither agreeing or disagreeing. "I'll work with you until we get them back. Then we'll see." 

"Great. We'll work together. As a team." Clint looked at Coulson. "What's the target?"

Coulson gave Natasha one last distrustful look, then sighed. "We ran facial recognition. Best match is Walter Hardy. Professional thief, usually manages to stay off our radar. This is his first known foray into weapons dealing."

"Score must have been too good to pass up," Clint said. "Tracker still transmitting?"

"For now. The plane is headed north. We're following. He's got a known hiding place in that direction, so we're working off the assumption that's where he's going. It's a few hours out."

"Safehouse?"

"Sort of."

At that, Clint had strapped himself into a seat and busied himself checking over the fresh weapons Coulson had brought him. Coulson made himself busy at the plane controls. Natasha seated herself, staring at him as he worked. The silence lasted nearly an hour.

Finally Clint shifted, stretching his legs.

"What's wrong with those?" Natasha pointed to the two arrows Clint had put aside.

"Oh." Clint glanced at the two arrows he had laid on the floor. "Nothing's wrong with them. I always like to have the same count in my quiver, that's all."

"You're superstitious." Natasha sounded amused.

Clint shrugged. The brief conversation paused as he moved to examining his sidearm. Finally he said, voice low, "Are we going to talk about it?"

Natasha cocked her head in inquiry.

Clint glanced in Coulson's direction, but Coulson hadn't looked up from the flight controls. He realised he had no idea how to talk about this. It wasn't something that came up more than once in a person's lifetime. "You know we Linked. Back there."

Natasha looked at him. Her eyes were chilly, her body language crisp and stiff. "I know you think something happened back there. But it can't have been a Link."

"We're soulmates." Clint said the words, and knew with a bone-deep certainty that they were true.

Natasha shook her head, lips quirking up as if she was amused. "It might not surprise you to know that I hear that a lot."

"That might be true, but you must have felt it. Didn't you?" Just mentioning it was a reminder of the crackling surge as the Link had formed. Clint shivered.

"Look. You seem…" Natasha looked around the Quinjet, and didn't finish her sentence. "But I can't be your soulmate."

"Because you'd rather not be?" Clint asked. That happened, people bonded to their worst enemy and tried to pretend it never happened. Clint couldn't imagine trying to ignore this feeling. His body was still thrumming from the charge that had sparked when they'd Linked, and the knowledge that this was it, and there would never be a second.

"I can't," she said. Her voice was suddenly hoarse, tight and small. "Link. Where I was trained--none of us could."

"Bullshit. Whether you felt it on that tarmac or not, whether you believe me or not, everybody can Link. It's part of being human."

"Then maybe I'm a monster," Natasha answered. Clint didn't know quite what to say to that. He was sure, looking at her face, that she believed it whether it was true or not.

*

"Target has stopped moving. I think we're almost there," Coulson said a little later, before he pulled Clint aside.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Yeah," Clint said. "Yeah, actually."

"Hawkeye. We can't trust her. And you're disobeying a mission directive, and now so am I."

"Like you've never done that before," Clint fired back.

"That is not the point. You saw her file, Clint. She is extremely dangerous."

"Not to me."

Coulson squinted at him. "What makes you say that?"

"I just have a feeling." Clint knew the explanation was inadequate. He didn't know how to admit the rest of it, so he didn't.

"A feeling." Coulson stared at him, exasperated.

"Yeah. A good feeling," Clint added. 

"Is that what you're going to tell Fury?"

"Fury will get it." Clint glanced back at Natasha, who was pretending she hadn't noticed the intense conversation, then back at Coulson. "Are you going to back me up?"

Coulson sighed. "Don't I always?"

*

The Quinjet descended as they neared their destination, to bring a lush, verdant green coastline into sharp focus. Clint stared out of the Quinjet's canopy.

"That's his base? I thought you meant, like, a safehouse. That is a fucking castle, Phil. All it's missing is the moat." The stone walls of Hardy's estate loomed large in the view, the rising sun turning the highlights of grey stone to a warm shade of marigold.

"Goes with your bow and arrow, I guess," Coulson said.

Natasha frowned as the plane moved in. "We're too close. He'll know we're coming."

"We're in stealth mode," Coulson explained. "Shouldn't even trip his sensors."

"You can do that?"

"Yeah. Pretty cool, huh?"

Black Widow didn't say anything, just peered a little more closely at the Quinjet's controls.

"Ingress?" Clint asked Coulson, who pointed at a spot on the roof.

"I'll lower you down there. Glass skylight, should be an easy entrance. But you'll need to stay alert once you're inside. Hardy's famous for his tricks. There's no predicting what resistance will look like."

Clint nodded, remembering the fog of pink-purple smoke that had interrupted Northwood's party. "Got it." 

Natasha slipped out of her dress into a borrowed SHIELD field suit, rolled up at the elbows and ankles. Despite the ill fit, it suited her, Clint thought. She strapped herself to the Quinjet's rappel line with a quick series of clicks, looking as if she'd done it a million times. 

Coulson watched as Clint did the same, as the invisible jet hovered in circles over their target. "Hawkeye? Watch your back."

Clint fired back a quick salute. "Back in a jiff," he quipped, then the plane door opened, releasing both Clint and Natasha into an amber morning sky.

*

Natasha watched as Clint fired an arrow into the pane of glass Coulson had identified. The arrow struck, and the glass made a cracking noise.

"Breach. We're in," Clint announced to Coulson on the other end of his comm, as their lines swung them through the ceiling window. Natasha landed first, steady on her feet and as light as a cat.

Glass crunched under Clint's boots as he landed beside her. They had arrived in a glossy, airy library. Clint kept his bow and arrow set, spinning in a slow circle as he watched for enemies.

"Clear," he whispered. Natasha had taken back control of her tracking device, and was peering at the screen.

"This way," she said, pointing to the closed door. Clint made his way over and opened it softly, looking down the sights of his bow at a seemingly endless hallway. 

"C?" Clint whispered into his comm. "This place is a maze. This might take a while."

Black Widow pointed at him, then ahead of them, and Clint nodded. Of course she didn't trust him enough to leave him on her six. Clint knew that logically, he should feel the same, but she'd had him in her grip on the tarmac in Germany, and hadn't killed him yet. That was something.

Natasha took up position behind him, her gun extended, pausing to double check the scanner on her arm, and Clint led them through the door into the house. They continued forward in silence. A floorboard creaked under Clint's left heel, and he froze, steeling himself for action. Natasha glanced back There was a soft, whirring noise from somewhere behind them, and Clint spun, making out a small, robotic object that hovered at eye level. It zigzagged back and forth as it made its way down the hall, and Clint's mind caught on a flicker of recognition. It was a sentry pattern. The robot continued to fly slowly through the hallway, headed in their direction. When it caught up to their position it would sound an alarm, or worse, might have its own defenses.

Tense and frozen beside him, Natasha seemed to come to the same conclusion. She raised her gun to aim, pointed directly at the robot, ready to bring it down. 

Clint shook his head. He put a hand on her arm, ignoring the phantom sensations of heat and electricity as he made contact with her skin. Natasha's head whipped around to glare at him in confusion. The robot was still moving, motor spinning softly, but despite being pointed in their direction, no security had been triggered. Clint moved swiftly, pulling Natasha to the wall and gently holding her there. She frowned, but didn't fight him. They were close, enough that he could hear her breathing. Each exhale was warm on his neck.

Soulmate, Clint thought dizzily. He was aware of her now in a way that seemed to drown his whole body.

The robot buzzed towards them. Natasha's eyes were raised over Clint's shoulder, tracking its movements. Natasha's hand tightened around her weapon.

Clint held his breath. 

The sentry drone flew past, taking no notice of them at all. Clint and Natasha stood closely for another moment, and then Natasha slinked out of his grasp, her eyes deliberately looking away. She pointed at her wrist, and then in the direction of the far end of the hallway. Clint nodded, loosing his grip and moving his hands around his weapon. He started moving forward, into the quiet.

The hallway ended in a staircase, and a row of doors into what appeared to be an entire new wing of the building. Natasha pointed again, in a fresh direction.

*

It had been a long night, and he'd been due, Clint thought, for a little luck. Ideally they would have been able to sneak into the compound unnoticed, grab the case, and leave without tripping any alarms. But in this version of the plan, the compound had been quiet, and Hardy had been asleep. Instead he was in his study, still wearing the tux he'd worn to Northwood's party, arguing on the phone in a foreign language.

Natasha stepped through the door with astonishing speed, Clint on her heels. Hardy turned at the noise, his eyes going wide with surprise as Natasha swung the butt of her gun into his nose, landing with a loud crack. He stumbled backwards, mumbling.

"Black Widow," Hardy said, in pained English. "Didn't expect you to follow me."

Clint's hands kept his bow and arrow level, as his eyes fell on the case, sitting on the ornate wooden desk. Hardy slumped against the desk, the case just out of his reach. Clint gestured to Natasha. She moved closer, opening the case to run her eyes over the contents.

"It's all here." She slammed it closed again, glancing distrustfully at Li. "We don't need him. Kill him and let's go."

Hardy made a small, nervous sound, and Clint shook his head. "That's not how--"

Hardy moved. Just a fraction, away from Natasha, to the edge of the desk. His hand fumbled underneath the desktop. Clint and Natasha both shouted warnings, at Hardy, at each other, but it was too late. A swarm of small, buzzing robots, identical to the one they'd evaded on the upper floor, detached from the ceiling and moved to surround them, firing small bullets. Clint ducked and leapt, overturning a sofa with a kick and crouching behind it for cover. He fired at each robot in turn, falling to the ground in a chorus of thunks. He heard a grunt, and saw Natasha beside him, shooting off defensive fire of her own. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Clint counted the dropping robots. It was quiet. He lifted his head and saw Hardy reaching behind his desk.

Clint moved to draw another arrow, but Hardy had already come up with his gun, aiming it in Clint's direction. His arm exploded in pain, and Clint dropped the arrow with an injured shout. Beside him Natasha fired off one, two shots. Hardy fell stiffly to the floor.

Clint was grunting, breaths coming hard as he clutched his bleeding arm. Natasha was hovering over him, putting her own weight on his hand where he pressed on the wound. Yes, pressure. That was good. Her hand moved to his throat, and Clint felt a spike of panic.

Shit, she was going to kill him right here, and take the case. The Black Widow was going to kill him. Coulson had been right, just because Clint had a feeling, had the overwhelming sensation of knowing her, didn't mean anything.

He was losing blood, fighting pain, and could barely hold onto his thoughts as they came.

Black Widow was murmuring something to him--it sounded like hush--and then she was speaking crisply into a comm. Clint's comm, the one she'd taken from his collar.

"We're going to need a closer exit plan. Hardy's down and the target is acquired, but Hawkeye's injured. And we have hostiles." Clint glanced up. He could hear a now-familiar buzzing as a second fleet of drones entered the room.

"One moment," Black Widow said calmly, then shots rang out. Almost immediately, the buzzing noises stopped.

Clint grunted, trying to stand. "There'll be more," he said.

Natasha nodded, coming back into his field of vision. "Your handler agrees. He's going to meet us on the lawn. I don't think he's convinced I'm not the one who shot you." 

"Told him you wouldn't," Clint said, clenching his teeth against a fresh wave of pain as he got to his feet. 

Natasha gave him a confused look at his words. There was a faint wave of humming, both their heads turning in the direction and drawing their weapons. Natasha moved faster, darting across the room and slamming the heavy wooden door closed. There was a thud and a metallic crack, as the first drones slammed up against the unexpected barrier.

"You think that'll hold them?" Clint asked.

"No idea," Natasha said. "That's why we're leaving the other way."

Clint looked around the room.

Natasha shrugged at him. "I've seen you in action. This can't be the first window you've jumped out of."

Clint grinned, despite the pain, and the blood loss that he knew was starting to cloud his thinking. Natasha was funny, he thought. That hadn't been in her file. Clint used his good arm to draw an arrow from his quiver, and Natasha looked at him with what seemed like a touch of concern.

"Can you shoot with that arm?"

"Neither of us needs to shoot. Just kind of slam it into a corner of the glass. Arrow will do the work." He handed it to her.

Natasha stared at him, hesitation plain, and then took it. She glanced at the case she'd set down on the floor, and kicked it over to him. Clint picked it up. There were more thuds against the door, in rapid succession. The door shook.

"Okay," she said. "Let's go."

She sprinted towards the largest window, with Clint on her heels. There was a melody of tinkling as the glass shattered, and then they were both tumbling out into the daylight, onto the lawn, Clint hissing as the impact jolted his injured arm. The Quinjet depowered its shields, slowly coming into view right ahead of them. The ramp lowered, and Clint jumped on board, with Natasha following swiftly after.

Clint staggered into the cargo bay, ignoring the drips of blood that marked his path. "There might be more automated defenses," he pointed out to Coulson, as Coulson slammed the bay door shut. The Quinjet took off into the sky. 

Over the sea, Coulson set the jet to autopilot, and came to crouch down beside where Clint had dropped, with a medical kit in his hand.

"Don't put me out," Clint said, as he watched Coulson rifle through the meds.

"I know better," Coulson answered mildly. "This one just takes the edge off." He glanced over at Natasha, who was leaning against the bulkhead, eerily still, and added, "Besides, I'm probably going to need you awake."

Clint nodded. Coulson pulled on a pair of gloves and began to examine the injury, and Clint remained silent, watching Natasha to distract himself from the discomfort. She stared back, her gaze impossible to read. Clint had watched documentaries about the effects of a Link, how soulmates could understand each other easily. Maybe that took time. Maybe she was right, and the Link hadn't formed properly. For now Black Widow was still an enigma, the thoughts behind her green eyes entirely masked. 

Coulson sat back on his heels, his voice cutting into Clint's thoughts. "I think it looks worse than it is. I'll dress it. That should hold you till we get to base."

Natasha stood up straight at his words. She still had one hand on her gun, but her shoulders were lowered, tired. "What happens now?" she asked them.

Coulson glancing at Clint, then nodded at her. "A deal is a deal."

"You earned it. You did something good today," Clint added.

Natasha's mouth folded into an unimpressed line, as if he had something rude. "I suppose."

"We can bring you in," Coulson said, and when Natasha's muscles tightened he added, "As a friend. To SHIELD. The boss may not like it. But Clint is right. You helped save a lot of people today."

Clint watched her carefully. He felt unsettled, uncertain what she might do. He wasn't sure what it might feel like, if his soulmate walked out and never came back, but he knew the choice was hers. "If that's not what you want, we can drop you anywhere. Back in Berlin, if you like."

Natasha considered his words. "I don't know. I don't know what to do now."

Clint took a breath. He stood, leaning towards her, one open hand extended. "How about you come with me?"


	4. 2027

Clint woke up in a box. At any rate it wasn't much bigger than a box, with narrow walls and a ceiling so low that Clint almost hit his head when he tried to stand up. He ducked the beam and stooped again, trying to piece together the cloudy memories. He'd said goodbye to Natasha, gotten lunch. And then definitely been drugged, Clint thought grimly. He could still taste the coffee's bitter aftertaste on his tongue.

He patted down his pockets, but his phone was gone, along with the small knife he'd been carrying. The door was firmly barred, but the room had one small window, a stream of sunlight coming through. Clint couldn't see much through it, just a patch of sky and grass. No sign of anyone close enough to help.

The window was bolted shut and narrow, maybe too narrow to fit through, but there would only be one way to find out. Clint shrugged out of his jacket, wrapping up his fists and preparing a swing.

"I wouldn't."

The voice was familiar. Clint turned around, hands up, and came face to face with Lana Northwood. Her face was stern and sharp, a completely different person than the sweet, friendly woman who'd been serving him lunch.

The man next to her muttered something in German.

"He won't go anywhere," Lana said with certainty, her gaze unmoving from Clint's immobile figure. "He can't leave before Natasha Romanov gets here."

Clint's heart sank, as a hundred questions formed in his mouth. He asked only the first. "How long have you been watching Natasha?"

Lana Northwood shrugged. "About as long as she's been watching me, I'd guess. The Black Widow is very recognisable, no matter how much she changes her hair."

"Right. Especially if you're obsessed with her."

Lana's eyes flickered with anger. "She betrayed my father."

Clint opened his mouth to say that wasn't what had happened, then stopped himself. Judging by Lana Northwood's venomous, flashing eyes, nothing Clint said would matter. "So you went into the family business," he concluded.

"Why not? It's more honest than what she does," Lana said. "Fooling us into thinking that she's a hero? That she died saving us from aliens?"

"She really died," was on the tip of Clint's tongue. He bit the words back. "Okay. Natasha Romanov ruined your life and this is your big payback. How do I figure into it? I'm just a tourist."

Lana Northwood cocked her head. "She doesn't keep you around because you're smart, I suppose. There's no better bait than a soulmate, is there?"

Clint hesitated. He could see the cold, twisted logic. People had been known to sense when the person on the other side of a Link was in trouble, even been known to use it to find them, like a homing tool. And if you wanted revenge, harming someone's soulmate was as poetic as it got. Lana Northwood had only made one mistake. "I already told you. We're not soulmates."

Lana rolled her eyes. "I didn't think you actually expected me to believe that. It's obvious. I've watched you for weeks."

"Obvious?" Clint repeated, but Lana was done with conversation. She barked out instructions in German. Her wide-shouldered companion wrestled Clint to his feet, wrenching his arms upwards, nearly out of their sockets. Clint grunted, kicking against the force. Lana watched dispassionately, as Clint fought back and was subdued. Shortly, Clint's hands were knotted tightly to a beam above his head, and he was alone.

*

Clint struggled against the rope bonds for more minutes than he could count, but they were strong and tight around his wrists. The wooden ceiling beam they had strapped him to was old, splintering wood scratching Clint's fingers. It shook a little when he yanked against it. He pulled again, the walls rattling, and examined the results. There had been definite movement, he thought. He braced his feet against the floor the best that he could, and tugged with all his might. A part of the beam came down, in a shower of wood and plaster. 

Freed, Clint stood in the centre of the room, clutching a short, heavy length of the wood that his hands had been bound to. The grooves of the aged surface were rough under his fingers, maybe sharp enough to help loosen the knots that still bound his hands together. Clint considered then discarded the task almost immediately. He didn't have time to spare. His mind raced through his options.

Lana Northwood had been insistent that Natasha would sense his predicament, even find him through the bond, but Clint knew she'd been wrong. There was nothing on Natasha's end of the bond, and there never had been. 

She'd figure out he was missing the usual way, and Clint didn't doubt she'd come for him then. But that might take days, and there was no telling what Northwood might do before then, or what she had planned for Natasha's arrival.

With a determined nod as he made his decision, Clint hefted the wood and swung it at the small window. He was breathing hard with the effort when the window finally shattered, leaving Clint just enough room to squeeze through. It was a fifteen foot drop to the ground, and Clint curled himself into a ball as he hit the grass with a small shock of pain that rippled through his body.

He looked around. The small house sat on an expanse of rolling land, and the nearest house was a dot in the distance, at least half a mile off. Which meant he was going to have to run at least that far for a car he could steal or a phone he could use to alert Natasha. 

"Better get moving, Barton," Clint muttered to himself. He moved around the side of the house, moving low, and quickly, scanning for a path with cover.

He immediately ran into a wall. Or a man, shaped like a wall and just as solid. Lana Northwood's bodyguard, his large, meaty hands squeezed into fists.

"I told Lana I heard a rat moving in the attic," he said, his voice a deep, menacing rumble.

Clint didn't pause to quip back. He swung his improvised weapon, hard, aimed at the other man's head, and the man stumbled back once but didn't fall. He struck back with broad fists, a solid hit to Clint's stomach that knocked all the air out of his lungs, and the rest of the fight was quick and brutal. Clint dodged, swinging the piece of wood as hard as he could. The big man grunted, but he was too slow to dodge. Clint made contact a second time, and a third, until finally the giant landed on the muddy ground. His eyes rolled back as he lost consciousness.

Clint heaved a relieved breath. He squatted down, patting the prone kidnapper's pockets for a weapon, or a knife with which to free his bound hands. The front pockets were empty, and Clint sighed with exertion as he rolled the man over. Nothing. Clint threw another set of cautious glances in all directions as he rose.

He picked up speed again, moving away from the house and towards a row of trees. He needed to get out of here, to find a way to contact Natasha…

His head swiveled again, and there was Lana Northwood. She was marching towards him, her eyes ablaze with fury. The light glinted off the weapon in her hand.

She raised the gun. Aimed it. Clint was an open target, standing on the grass. He raised his hands in surrender.

Northwood's gaze was dragged from him at the unexpected sound of an engine revving, noise growing as it headed directly at them. The driver's side door swung open while it was still in motion, Natasha launching herself into motion. She arced gracefully in the air, landing a solid kick at Northwood's head. The gun flew from her grasp, and Clint leapt to make sure Northwood was immobilised. Dazed eyes looked up at him, still full of virulent hate. Then they fluttered closed.

"She's still breathing," Clint warned her, as Natasha picked up the gun and tucked it away.

Natasha nodded. "I'm not who she thinks I am," she said quietly. "SHIELD's on it's way."

Clint doubled over, letting relief wash over him.

Now Natasha's eyes rose in his direction, roving over him, brows knotting in a hint of worry. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he said.

"Good." Natasha put a hand on his elbow, and gestured towards the car, engine still running. Her mouth lifted up into a small, relieved smile. "Maybe you should come with me."

*

Natasha drove him back to her flat in stone silence. She cut the rope from his wrists, and rubbed soothingly at the abraded skin. She pulled first aid supplies from a closet, and began to attend to where his face was bleeding. Clint winced at the sting of the disinfectant.

"Nat," he said, finally breaking the detente. He sat on the arm of her sofa, a height that put their faces close together. Natasha's fingers were gentle where they grazed his face, over the two days of stubble on his cheeks. He caught her wrist, disturbing her task.

"Nat," he said. He sounded pained, he knew, and desperate.

Natasha's eyes met his. "Clint."

"Are you going to tell me how you found me?"

Clint had done the math. He hadn't been missing that long. Natasha fell silent at his question.

"Did you see it happen?"

Natasha shook her head. In the silence, Clint waited.

"You were easy to locate. Lana Northwood left your phone on. Helpful of her," Natasha added, mouth folding into cynical amusement. "I called Phil, and he got me a location off the GPS."

That meant she'd known something was wrong. Clint kept his eyes on her, pushing gently. "You called Phil? Why?"

"I knew he could track you faster than I could," Natasha said, with a casualness that was almost convincing.

Clint growled, his patience snapping. "Nat. That woman told me I was the bait, that she knew you'd track me because we were soulmates. And I guess she thought that was the perfect revenge." Clint shook his head. "I told her she had it backwards. I told her," Clint kept going, his voice cracking, "that her plan couldn't possibly work, because there was no Link."

When Natasha still didn't say anything, Clint swore, dropping her hand and pulling away from her. "Shit, Nat. This whole time?"

"No!" Natasha looked startled at the accusation. "What I told you when it happened, as far as I knew, that was true. I couldn't Link. None of us could."

"Then when?"

"I'm not as sure as I'd like to be. At first I thought it happened when I came back, that maybe something changed in me." Natasha shrugged, looking regretful. "But maybe it was happening long before, and I didn't know it, because I didn't know it could happen. And I'm sorry. I know being half of an unfinished Link wasn't a whole lot of fun."

Clint didn't say anything to that. He was thinking it over, trying to refocus his understanding of the last few weeks. "I think maybe you better tell me what happened while you were," he stumbled, then finished, "gone. While you were gone."

Natasha nodded "It's a long story. I'll make some tea."

*

Clint sat across from Natasha on her long, soft couch. He'd declined the tea in favour of whiskey on ice. Natasha pulled her legs up, her bare feet on the seat, and rested her mug on her knees. The steam rose a little off the rim.

"The Soul Stone is hidden now. In space, but nowhere near Vormir. I can't pronounce the name of the planet."

"That's good. I don't want to know where the stone is." Clint tried not to shiver at the thought of the Stones, and the terrible Gauntlet.

Natasha nodded. "The point is, that's where I was when I came back. No one had ever seen a Human, or heard of Earth, but I managed to sneak onto a long-range communications network and contact Quill."

Clint frowned in surprise at that. "Peter Quill knew where you were?"

"Somebody had to give me a ride home." Natasha cast her eyes down into her mug. "I asked him not to tell anyone."

"Yeah, okay. He brought you to Earth?"

"Yeah. We took a bit of a detour first. He was in the middle of a gig." Natasha took a sip of tea as she considered the memory. "I still didn't really know what had happened to me. But it gave me a lot of time to talk to him, and his crew. Did you know humans are the only species they know of that has soulmates?"

Clint shook his head. It wasn't something he'd ever thought about. "No."

"Quill doesn't have any clue if he can Link. He figures if he can, his soulmate must be human, anyway. So he'll never meet them. I guess he's okay with that. The rest of his crew thought the whole idea sounded pretty awful, I think."

Clint swallowed caustic agreement. "That's all you did? Talked alien science?"

Natasha shrugged off Clint's impatience. "They were curious about what had brought me back. Not so surprised, maybe. They see a lot of weird out there. But they were curious, and eventually the best theory we came up with was that maybe the Soul Stone had never taken a person with a soulmate before."

"The point being--" Clint prompted.

"The point being," Natasha finished, "that you traded a soul for the stone. But I was only half of a soul, Clint, and it didn't take the other half."

The other half. Him. Her words lingered in the air, the first time she'd ever admitted their Link out loud. 

"It wouldn't have been anything the Soul Stone had seen before. Quill and his friends figure that with an incomplete sacrifice, eventually the stone had to just --"

"--spit you back out?"

Natasha nodded. "Essentially."

"Essentially, Nat, that's a pretty half-baked theory."

"It's the best one we've got."

Clint fell silent, as he tried to process the story she was telling him. The thought of Natasha waking up far away and alone made him ache. But he needed to understand the rest of it. "You asked them about soulmates. So you were feeling it? Feeling us. Even that far away." 

Natasha's jaw moved once, in a small, tiny admission. 

Clint continued, his words coming faster. "So Quill dropped you back on Earth, and you knew we were Linked, and that all your friends missed you, and you decided to move to Germany. To follow up on a cold mission from twenty years ago."

"It wasn't all about the mission. I mean some of it was. I'd lived, and I'd died, and it felt like there was so much that was still undone, you know? But more than that, I couldn't come home. So I found my old stash, and I bought a new identity, and I hoped it would hold for a while." Natasha sighed, her words coming to a sudden stop. 

Clint watched her, her blue-black hair falling into her face, her mouth shifting into a thousand different expressions as if she couldn't decide what she felt, and finally asked, "Why?"

Natasha squinted in confusion. "Why, which part?"

"Why couldn't you come home?" It was a simple question, the only one that he'd had for weeks.

"And say what?" she asked.

"Hello?" Clint suggested. "Hi? I'm alive? I missed you?"

"I did miss you," Natasha said, with unexpected fierceness. "I just didn't know how to tell you that the Link had finished."

"Did you wish it hadn't?" Clint had asked her that before, he remembered. She hadn't answered. Now Natasha simply looked away, taking a breath before her eyes met his once more. 

"It wasn't anything like that," she said slowly, and then, "I thought about you all the time. I dreamed about you. I'd wake up in the middle of the night and check for mentions of Hawkeye in what little I could pick up of Earth news, because I couldn't sleep unless I knew you were fine. I checked on the other Avengers too, but with you it was, I don't know. Indescribable. I'd never felt anything like that before.

"Pretty awful," Clint said, remembering what she'd said a few minutes before.

"No. That's not what I mean." Natasha sighed. "Today, when I realised something was wrong, that you were hurt? I always thought it was a passing sensation, like remembering you'd left a light on. But this felt as if I'd been hit with something. Something big. Does it feel like that every time?"

"It does, I guess."

"You never said."

Clint shrugged, the movement inadequate to cover twenty years of Natasha getting injured, on the job, or what it had felt like to watch her fall. "It was what it was."

"You learned to live with it," Natasha concluded.

"Yeah."

"I knew that," Natasha insisted, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Don't you see? I couldn't just come and drop my shit in the middle of that. I was twenty fucking years late, Clint, and I didn't have a clue if you really still felt the Link, or if it was just years of habit, or--"

Clint cut her off. "You were scared," he said. Sharp, accusing.

"Yeah," Natasha admitted.

"Because you thought maybe I didn't feel the Link any more? That I'd fallen out of love with you?"

"Yeah."

Clint was shaking. He couldn't seem to stop it. He put down the glass in his hand in case it slipped from his fingers, and it settled with a rough clink on the coffee table. He reached out a hand for Natasha, and she flinched and then relaxed as his palm landed gently, broad fingers splayed across her knee. "I hope," he said, his voice rough, "that now you've said it out loud, you realise how fucking stupid that sounds."

"Tell me," Natasha said, and her words came out in one rush of breath, sounding nearly desperate.

"You've been my best friend for twenty years. Not just because we touched on that runway, but because I knew everything about you. Loved everything about you," Clint said firmly, and Natasha's fingers twitched around her mug, as if she hadn't been expecting to hear him say the words. "If the Link was one-sided then that was my problem, I couldn't put that on you every day. But I have been in love with you forever, and if you thought I ever lost that then you are a fucking idiot."

Natasha laughed. It was a choked, relieved noise. She shifted, reaching to put her drink down on the floor, then inched closer to him and laid her hands over his. They were warm, her skin flushed. "I feel like I'm playing catch-up," she said. Her face drifted closer to his, and Clint couldn't tear his eyes away.

He angled his own face in to meet hers, and their lips touched. Her mouth yielded to the kiss with no hesitation. He pressed his lips against hers, found them sweet and soft, and then his tongue pressed into her mouth. It was a little crazy, Clint thought, that he'd never kissed her before. His head was spinning, his whole body feeling off-balance. He pulled her towards him, and they collapsed in a horizontal tangle of limbs on the couch.

"Idiot," Clint reminded her, between long, breathless kisses.

"Guilty," Natasha agreed. She pressed against him until there was no space between them, her hands snaking around his waist to hold him close. Clint sucked gently at her bottom lip, listening to the way her breath came slightly faster as his hands roamed over her body.

"I dreamed about you in space," Natasha admitted.

"You said that," Clint reminded her, and Natasha rolled her eyes.

"No, I mean I dreamed about you." She put a heavy weight on _dream_. 

"Oh," Clint said, the image of Natasha having filthy dreams about him sending a rush of blood through him. 

"Like you were there with me. I woke up needing it to be true so badly. Is that part of the Link?"

"Maybe," Clint said. "It feels like everything must be the Link, sometimes. I--" He broke off, losing his train of thought as Natasha wiggled against him, her hands sneaking into his worn flannel shirt and pulling at the buttons. Her fingers roamed over his chest, twisting in the dusting of hair there. She pressed a kiss to his throat, over his beating pulse point. Clint arched towards her, gasping. 

"Tell me what you dreamed."

"You were there with me, in space. It was a small bunk. We'd probably barely have fit in it together."

Clint chuckled. "Kind of like this couch?"

"Just like it," Natasha said, eyes sparkling with mirth. She raised her torso, pulling her top off with easy grace. Her bra came next, and she tossed it to the floor. Clint lifted his head to press his mouth against the swell of her left breast, leaving a trail of kisses until his lips touched the round, pink pebble of her nipple. He parted his lips sucking gently, and Natasha heaved sighs. 

Her knees were spread and braced on either side of his body. Clint tugged her jeans open, desperate to get closer to her, to the feel and the smell of her. The zipper came down with a quiet noise, and Clint's fingers slipped inside. She was growing wet. Clint's fingers spread her lips and circled her entrance, rubbing her clit. Natasha clung to him, gasping, shallow warm pants against his ear. The nub of her clit swelled under his hand. She was growing slippery with juices, and his fingers moved easily, in rough circles.

Natasha murmured something unintelligible, and Clint thought he could feel her urgency growing as if it was his own. Maybe she could feel his, too, and they were caught in a loop of each other's need. Clint's hips bucked upwards, his swelling erection inside his slacks grinding against her parted thighs.

He moaned, kissing her with a hungry, yearning mouth, and Natasha whispered helpless noises against his lips. It sounded something like _please_.

Her hips gyrated against his hand, as if she was seeking more friction, and Clint stroked her harder. She was on the precipice, her eyes half-closed with lust. Her fingers dug into his skin, and she buried a string of sighs into the crook of his neck, and then she was curling and uncurling against him, trembling as if she'd never stop.

Clint held her, kissing her. His erection was achingly insistent now. Natasha scrambled out of her jeans and underwear. Her soft fingers rubbed over the front of his jeans, then undid the zipper and pulled his cock out of his jeans in fluid motion. Her touch ran over the swollen, sensitive tip.

"Fuck," Clint ground out, pulling her into his arms. She fell against him, breathing hard. 

Natasha wrapped her bare legs around his waist, whispered, "Now." He could feel the soaking wetness of her, and a heat that made him cry out, just moments before he slid inside her. Clint thrust, his cock sliding deep until he was filling her completely. Natasha moaned at the sensation, her head tilting back, and she was everything in that moment, and all he'd ever needed. She shifted her hips against him, and Clint held tight to her as he thrust up into her. Natasha moaned at the change in angle, leaking arousal around his cock. Clint's head was spinning, drunk on the feel of her. He could feel her everywhere, against his skin and around his cock and inside his head.

Natasha clung to him, and then without warning she was coming again, silently biting her lip through the aftershocks. Clint groaned as she tightened around him. He moved inside her, hard, desperate. Then he came with a shudder, whispering her name.

*

They rested together, limbs intertwined, satisfied for the moment. Natasha's breathing slowed, Clint's own exhales falling into matching time.

"That was…" Clint began

"Overdue," Natasha finished softly.

"Worth the wait," Clint said. He hadn't thought he'd ever seen her again. Next to that, twenty years of waiting felt insignificant. He could wait another twenty, if it would all lead to this.

He said as much out loud, and Natasha made a face. "Ugh. We'd be so old."

"Bet you'd still be perfect."

"Don't be dumb," Natasha said in response. She sighed, looking around the room, at her neatly organised bookshelves and the mess of her clothes on the floor. "I love you. But I do not want to pack."

"Pack?" Clint repeated.

"Yeah, pack. I don't have any reason left to stay here." Her words slowed, sounding hesitant. "I was going to come back with you. Unless that's not what you want."

"Nat. I've been asking you to come home for weeks."

She sighed in his arms. "I wanted to. I just thought it might be weird."

Clint laughed a little. He kissed the side of her neck, feeling her flush. "Oh, it's definitely going to be weird. But we're getting pretty used to Avengers coming back from the dead."

Her mouth folded at the mention of their old team. "I'm not sure I'm ready for that part. Being an Avenger again."

"You can be part-time. Works pretty well for me," Clint said. He eyed the painting on the wall above the sofa, a misty city scene. "You don't really have to pack if you don't want to. Do you actually need anything in here?"

"No," she admitted. "It's just a bunch of stuff I collected to pass the time."

"What about the school?"

She shrugged. "Like I said. Passing time."

"So don't worry about it. I'll book a flight. Two seats."

Natasha nodded, and Clint felt a lightness he hadn't known since she'd fallen, or maybe not since they'd met, maybe not ever.

"I want the aisle," Natasha said. She kissed him, and small sparks flew where he touched her, from his fingers to the base of her spine.

"You got it," Clint told her.

*

They left in the morning, taking off just as daylight hit the tarmac. Natasha's hands uncharacteristically restless in her lap. Clint's hands fell on top of her cool fingers, stilling the motion, and he could feel the small crackle of static pass between their skin.

"It's going to be fine," he said.

Natasha's mouth lifted into a wry smile. "You can read the future, now?"

"No," Clint said, but he knew nothing could be as bad as it had been when she'd been gone. He didn't say that. Instead he said, "But I've got you," and their fingers twined together as the plane rose into an amber sky.


End file.
